Fear of Falling
by authoressnebula
Summary: Early season 2 ambiguous fic. A fight sends one of the boys out into the snow.


One hundred and seventy-three more steps. That was all he had to take. He knew that for a fact; he'd counted on the way out, so mad that if he hadn't, he would've stormed back inside and said something he knew he would've regretted. He was fairly certain he'd already done that tonight; he didn't want to do it again.

One hundred and seventy more steps. He could make it. It wasn't all that bad, really. It was just a little cold out. Nothing to worry about. It probably wasn't even below twenty degrees outside. He'd be fine.

One hundred and sixty-seven more steps. Okay, it _was_ pretty bad, and despite it not being horrifically cold, it was still really cold, and the snow blowing around, hitting him straight in the face, wasn't helping. It felt like icy cold fingers were reaching beyond the land of the dead to stab at his face, and he knew for a fact what that felt like. Hunting spirits and demons meant that he got the drop on them most of the time, but sometimes, they got the drop on him first.

One hundred and sixty-two more steps. It wouldn't have been so bad if he hadn't stayed outside for so long, but he'd been outside for an hour already. He hadn't gone very far, but in weather that had snow above his ankles, it was too far. Especially when he'd realized that he didn't have his cell on him. His brother was going to kill him for that alone.

After he helped him into dry clothes and got some coffee into him. And checked for wounds or a temperature.

One hundred and fifty-six more steps. He needed to think about something else besides the biting wind and the frost that had probably seared itself to his skin. Something else besides the painful, yet numb sensation that was his feet, which he couldn't really feel anymore. He couldn't feel his fingers, either. Which would help if he fell over into the snow, which was something he'd been desperately trying _not_ to do since he'd started walking back.

One hundred and fifty-four more steps. He needed to think about something else. Like the stupid fight they'd had. One like a million they'd had before, and one they'd have a million more times beyond today. They'd probably have a chick-flick moment, and then they'd move on. They were brothers; it was what they did.

One hundred and fifty more steps. He didn't even know what had started the fight. They'd been in close quarters all day, dealing with a poltergeist who loved closets, and one little upset had blown out of proportions. It was how most of their fights started. Most of their fights didn't deal with the big, heavy stuff. Like one of them going off to college and leaving the other behind. Like one of them retreating into grief at their dad's death and striking out at the other. That stuff was better left unsaid.

One hundred and forty-four more steps. Forty-three. Forty-two. Forty-one. Forty. The motel lights were visible in the darkness that seemed even darker despite the white snow that glistened everywhere. It was still a ways to go. Worse yet, the cold was seeping through his clothes now, burying itself in his bones and making him tired. So tired.

One hundred and thirty-seven – no, thirty-six – more steps. He reached a sign that he'd passed on his way out, and blinked at it for a moment. He was closer than he thought. He'd miscounted. He didn't usually miscount. Today, though, he couldn't have been more thrilled. It meant he was eighty-five steps from the door that would open for him. Always.

Eighty-two more steps. It was why they never talked about the big stuff. They didn't have to. He knew his brother wouldn't love him any less for what had happened between them, just like he didn't love his brother any less. He was his _brother_, his best friend, the person he could always rely on. They'd been distanced twice, and had always come back.  
Seventy-seven more steps, and he had to stop, bending his head down and out of the cold. He felt light-headed, nauseous, and it was as if the ground was pulling him down, slowly but steadily towards the bed of snow that blanketed everything. Panic rose in his chest and he straightened too fast, wincing as he tried to stop the world from spinning out of control. He had the symptoms of barophobia: fear of gravity. It was silly to be afraid of something like gravity, but

Seventy-six more steps.

it wasn't really gravity that was the fear. Fear of falling, of never getting back up, of sitting forever, firmly rooted to the ground while the rest of the world moved around you, and he would _not_ do it. He wouldn't give in.

Not when he had someone depending on him.

Seventy-four – three – more steps. They were equal partners now, not like they had been when they were children. One had been the caretaker, the oldest, the one who knew what was best and he'd be damned before he saw anything happen to the youngest. The other, the youngest, had always believed the oldest, hiding behind him when things got bad.

Sixty-nine more steps. They had each other's backs now. They weren't equal in height, but they were equal in loyalty. That was ten times more important than height. Though that had been one of the factors of tonight's fight which, for the life of him, he couldn't understand why it had been that important. Did they really fight about everything?

Sixty-three more steps, and he realized that they didn't. The little things that got on each other's nerves, yeah. Happened all the time. Driving in the Impala all day, staying in a room together every night...they were bound to pick fights. If they didn't, he'd have been worried.

Fifty-eight more steps. He picked up his pace even more, anxious now to get back to his room. Their room. The room he knew his brother was waiting for him in. He could see the lights on from here, could see an outlined shadow behind the curtains that were pulled over the window. Probably pacing and muttering and being worried as all hell.

Fifty-four more steps, and he could feel himself slowing down again. If there was anything a Winchester did, though, it was push through, so he did. He pushed through the cold that had him shaking now underneath his single layer of clothes, that had his fingers and feet numb, that made his eyes sting and froze the tears that ran from his eyes before they hit his chin. Yeah, it was cold out.

Fifty more steps...no, wait, forty-nine more steps. He stopped, unable to help himself, upset that he'd miscounted again. He glanced around for anything that would tell him what number he was at, but he only saw snow. Crap. Time to get inside before his brain completely froze. He'd stick with his original count.

Forty-eight more steps. Forty-seven. Forty-six-five-four-three more steps, and he had to stop, his quick jog having cost him. He coughed, inhaled and coughed even harder as the cold, bitter air bit at his lungs. _Crap_. Beyond time to get back inside. His brother was going to be _pissed_.

Forty-two more steps. He could make it. It'd be nice and warm and dry inside, and he wouldn't have to worry about falling. The ground seemed closer now, and he jerked himself up, almost tipping himself into the snow as he did so. Maybe he'd just been crouched over, huddled in on himself in an attempt to hide from the snow. That was it. The ground sure as hell wasn't getting any closer.

Forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight more steps. Thirty-seven. Thirty-six. The door still seemed so far away, and he felt the despairing urge to cry and sink into the snow where he was. The white was taunting him now, no longer sweet and soft and beautiful. Now it was horrid and grotesque and he wanted a shovel to get rid of it, or a hair-dryer to melt it all away. They were heading to Florida after this; no more snow.

Thirty-two more steps. Almost there now. The fight would be forgotten, he knew that, as soon as he rapped on the door with fingers he couldn't feel anymore. There was no way he could dig for the motel key that was in his right pocket. He was going to get chewed out for not having his cell on him, but it wouldn't escalate into a fight. It would be terse, angry words that came from a body tense with worry and concern. It'd be okay.

Twenty-eight more steps. He was slowing down. He forced himself to concentrate and put his feet forward, one after the other. Twenty-seven. Twenty-six – no, twenty-five – twenty-four? He couldn't think anymore. Twenty-two. No, twenty-three. Twenty-two. Twenty-one. Twenty.

The next time he thought getting air would help after a fight, he wanted his brother to punch him. Hard. For all his smarts, he could be truly stupid sometimes. He was _never _doing this again. Ever.

Eighteen steps, that was all he had to take. He stumbled, hands going out automatically to stop his fall, and he pulled back as if he'd been burned, forcing himself to pull up. He could do this. He wouldn't give up now. He couldn't fall yet. He would make it.

Seventeen more steps. Sixteen more steps. Fifteen more steps. He was on the concrete path now that led to their door. Fourteen more steps. Thirteen. Twelve. Eleven. Ten.

The cold didn't matter anymore.

Nine.

He still couldn't feel his fingers or his feet, and there was a tremor in his bones that had settled there, with no intention of leaving anytime soon.

Eight.

It didn't matter though. Because

Seven.

he was almost there. The door was closed, but would soon be open, despite the words that had been said earlier, despite it all.

Six.

That was what they did. It was what made them brothers, made them best friends.

Five.

That hadn't changed even through the distanced moments they'd had. He didn't think it ever would.

Four.

They helped each other through. No matter what the hell they said (and they could say some really

Three.

nasty things sometimes) they were always

Two.

going to be there

One.

for each other.

He laid his forehead against the door and rapped softly against it. Within seconds the door was opened, a face full of worry meeting his vision, and he let himself fall. It was okay to fall now. He knew his brother would grab him.


End file.
